Unbroken
by It Belongs In A Museum
Summary: Dead is dead. Or at least that's the way it's supposed to be. But when she wakes up in a pine box 3 years after her early demise, Lizbeth Oswald may have to rethink that definition. Not that she can spend that much time on it, seeing as there's an Apocalypse going on and apparently she has a job to do. Eventual Dean/OC following season 4. Rated T for swearing and canon stuff.
1. Prologue - Paranoia

**Disclaimer – I don't own 'Supernatural'. Did you really think I did?**

**Okay, so this is going to be an eventual Dean/OC story starting in Season 4. I'm a UST writer, so it might take a while for them to get together, but when they do it will be awesome.**

**The prologue is to introduce the backstory of the main character. It might seem a bit confusing, but that's because Lizbeth doesn't know what the hell is going on either. Please, please, please review. I don't know how it turned out or if I should continue this story, so your responses will definitely help me decide the direction of the story.**

Prologue – Paranoia

_December 7, 2005_

She was being paranoid. She was just being paranoid. It was an occupational hazard for someone in her position, wasn't it? The world she had been raised in, the things that she had seen, the things that she had done—paranoia went hand-in-hand with that sort of stuff. Hell, at some point or another paranoia was just a symptom of self-preservation. But it had been a while since she needed to be paranoid, so that shiver running down her spine and that slight prickling feeling of the hairs raising on the back of her neck seemed left her feeling slightly panicked.

Lizbeth Oswald walked briskly down the darkened street, the long, red hair of her ponytail swishing back and forth against the back of her neck with each determined step. It was a familiar trek. It started out at that fitness studio where she taught Judo to middle schoolers, followed by a couple of hours at the library to cram for all those goddamn final exams next week, and then it finally ended with that two mile walk to her apartment. It was a trip that she knew very well, a trip she was familiar with, a trip she could walk in her sleep by that point—so why did she feel so tense all of the sudden? Why was she so on edge lately?

Lizbeth pulled her coat in closer around her, as if somehow that one layer of leather would afford her any extra degree of protection. For some reason she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. She didn't know by who or by what, but for the past few weeks she got the distinct impression somebody was studying her every move. She felt like an ant under a magnifying glass that some fat kid was trying to set on fire—squirming and uncomfortable. Direct threats she was absolutely fine with. If some asshole charged at her with a knife, she would be totally fine with it—she knew how to deal with problems like that. It was the problems she wasn't aware of that bothered her—the ones that could sneak up on her. Lizbeth Oswald did not let anybody get the drop on her

Just then a shadowed figure darted underneath a nearby streetlamp, making her heart skip a beat and her breath catch in her chest. Reflexively, Lizbeth's hand plunged into her messenger bag and closed around the small, silver switchblade that always lay at the bottom and she turned in the direction of the shadow. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. It was a goddamn cat. She was definitely off her game if Mr. Fuzzles was giving her the heebie-jeebies. "Get it together, Oswald," she muttered to herself before taking a long, steadying breath and continuing on her way home.

Lizbeth left her hand in the bag, searching around inside until her fingers found their way around her cell phone. Pulling it out, she flipped it open and punched in a familiar number before pressing it to her ear.

"Agent Tom Willis speaking," a gruff voice crackled out from the other side of the connection. Lizbeth smiled slightly and snorted into the receiver, a sound which was immediately followed by a frustrated sigh. "Goddamnit Lizzie, is that you again?"

"Hey, Bobby," she murmured tiredly into the phone.

"Why the hell can't you just call the fuckin' home phone, ya idgit," he growled in frustration, making her smile widen a bit more. "It's there for a reason."

"Because I find the idea of you as an F.B.I. agent endlessly hilarious," she drawled out sarcastically. "How's it going old man? Are you taking care of yourself, eating your wheaties and all that good stuff?"

"You watch yourself, girlie," he mumbled back. "Just because your about to graduate and get yourself a fancy college degree doesn't mean ya get to suddenly tell me what to do."

"Please," she scoffed, rolling her eyes heavily. "I've been telling you what to do since I was sixteen."

"Then isn't it about time ya shut the hell up? Why are ya callin' me anyways? Seein' as finals are next week I don't think the contents of my fridge should be all that high on your list of priorities."

Lizbeth exhaled sharply and bit down on her lip, picking up her pace slightly. "I was wondering if you've heard about anything hinky going on in my neck of the woods. Lightening storms, crop failures, anything like that."

"Aw, shit, Lizzie," he groaned out in frustration, "you're not out looking for a hunt are you? You've got enough goin' on as it is an' you can't divide your attention like that or you'll end up gettin' yourself killed. No hunts during the semester, we agreed on that before—"

"I'm not looking for a hunt, Bobby," she hissed, cutting him off abruptly. She swore under her breath and stopped for a moment, glancing around to see if anybody was within earshot before continuing. "Look, I've just been having a bad feeling lately—call it intuition or a vibe or whatever the hell you want to call it—but there's this…..this vibe. I'm not looking for anything, but I'm beginning to get the impression that there's something looking for me."

Bobby was completely silent on the other end of the call, leaving Lizbeth with only crickets, traffic, and her own footsteps to listen to. "Bobby?"

"Just give me a second, I'm checkin'."

After a few moments of rustling papers, the phone picked up again. "Garth's huntin' down a shape-shifter in Richmond, but other than that I'm not seein' a damn thing anywhere near Middlebury," his disembodied voice grumbled out. "You're probably just stressin' out again. Remember at the end of the first year? You thought the girl's bathroom on the third floor was haunted."

"Hey, there were indicators!" she exclaimed, pulling at the end of her ponytail in frustration. "Flickering lights and a cold spot."

"There was shitty electrical work an' you were standin' underneath a vent."

"Oh, give me a break," she whined. "I had just pulled two all-nighters in a row. I was running on 48 hours with no sleep."

"My point exactly," he replied in a self-satisfied tone. "How much sleep have you been gettin'?"

Lizbeth sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Enough," she muttered evasively.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You been havin' the dreams again?"

She bit on the inside of her cheek until her mouth filled with the taste of pennies. She had been having the dream again, that same recurring dream from when she was a kid where she was pinned to the ceiling and burning. It had come back a bit over a week ago, right around the same time that sick, paranoid feeling began to worm its way into her bones. Only this time something in that dreams had changed slightly. This time there was someone pinned next to her, staring into her eyes as she felt her flesh melt—a woman with light brown hair and hazel eyes that looked just like her own. She recognized the face from the baby photos, home movies, and that small picture in the locket around her neck—it was her mother. These days when she woke up in a cold sweat, the image of her face was what was seared into her mind.

Taking her silence as a 'yes', Bobby swore loudly into the receiver, making Lizbeth jump slightly and tearing her out of her morbid reverie. "Listen up, girlie," he growled over the phone, "why don't you give yourself a break. Take a load off, get drunk, paint your toenails and play truth or dare with those friends of yours—"

"I really don't think you understand how college students spend their leisure time."

"—and more than anything else, get some sleep."

Sighing heavily, Lizbeth scratched absently at her forehead and nodded in agreement, despite the fact that the person she was talking to was hundreds of miles away and could most definitely not see her. He was right. She was fucking exhausted. Between two jobs and classes, she was getting less than four hours a night and her eyes were beginning to itch horribly. "Okay, Bobby," she said in a defeated tone. "You're right."

"Of course I'm right, ya idgit," he replied gruffly. There was a loud click as he hung up. Lizbeth snorted lightly and snapped the phone shut before returning it to her bag. Bobby was never really the warm and fuzzy sort, but she loved that curmudgeon-y old bastard. As father figures go, he was a hell of a lot better than her actual father.

By the time she got back to her apartment building, Lizbeth's feet felt like they were encased in lead. It took a ridiculous amount of effort to haul herself up the steps to the fourth floor, and she let out an internal scream of victory as she slid her key into the lock.

"Amy, Meg, I'm home! There had better still be some more of that sangria in the fridge, because after the day I had, I'm going to fucking need it!" she shouted as she stepped through the door, alerting her roommates to her presence. Letting out a relieved sigh, she tossed her keys into that bowl near the door and threw her bag and jacket onto the armchair in the living room. The television was on, set to one of those ridiculous soaps Amy loved so much—"Doctor Sexy, M.D." or something else equally ridiculous. Usually Amy would be curled up on the couch, a bowl of ice cream in hand and eyes glued to the screen, but now the couch was empty. "Hello?" Lizbeth called out again, more hesitantly this time.

"In the kitchen!" Meg's lilting voice sang. The sound of it gave Lizbeth the shivers. Usually Meg was kind and warm and comforting. Lately, though, she had been aggressive and snarky, and the way she called out had a sickly sweetness to it that seemed oddly hostile.

Feeling oddly tense, Lizbeth moved into the kitchen. When she turned the corner, what she saw was like a knife to the gut. "Jesus Christ!"

"Nope, try again."

Meg was sitting there at the kitchen table, feet propped up on the surface in front of her and casually eating a piece of chocolate cake, next to a bloodied knife and Amy's still, ashen corpse. The other girl was sitting at the table as well, her head leaning down on the surface. She could have been asleep if it wasn't for the pool of deep red blood, mixing with and congealing in her soft blonde hair. Lizbeth stood there in the doorframe, unable to move as if her feet had grown roots. Meg smirked up at her, letting those wide, brown, milkmaid eyes of hers to flick black.

"Hey Beth! Sorry about the mess, but I had to make a call," Meg—or the demon inside Meg—said through a mouthful of food, gesturing at an ornate chalice resting near Amy's head with blood dribbling down its side. "But if we're all being honest, it was about time somebody cut her throat. All that whining about boys was seriously getting on my nerves. I mean, how co-dependent can you get?"

The adrenaline was pumping through Lizbeth's veins, lighting her nerve endings on fire. Fight or flight. She wanted more than anything to rip the bitch's head off and end her, but a cage match with a demon was not something she was prepared for. Lizbeth made a dash for the door, but before she could reach it, it slammed shut, sealing her it. A primal growl erupted from her lips as she threw her weight against the wood, trying to force herself out, but the thing might as well have been made of lead.

A wicked little laugh burbled out of the demon's throat as she watched with amusement, still eating that fucking cake. "Please stop," she said, looking at Lizbeth with an expression of wide-eyed innocence. "You're embarrassing yourself." Reaching a leg out under the table, the demon pushed out another chair. "Please," she said sweetly, gesturing at the chair. "I'm not going to kill you—not yet anyway. I just want to chat. A little bit of girl talk. Maybe later we can braid each other's hair and talk about our favorite boy bands."

Lizbeth paused for a moment, her eyes roving around the kitchen and searching for some kind of escape, but there was none to be found. So, begrudgingly, she moved towards the chair and slowly sat down, never letting her eyes stray from the figure across from her.

"How the fuck did you get into this house?" Lizbeth growled through gritted teeth.

The demon shook her head condescendingly, like she was scolding a small child. "Is that how you treat a guest? You're not even going to ask my name?"

"Would you give it to me if I asked?" Lizbeth bit out.

"Probably not," the demon responded with a wide smile. "But you can just go ahead and call me Meg. I think it suits me. So does this body." She held up a hand and inspected it like a society girl buying a new dress. "Of course I'm going to have to dress it up a bit—give it some style. As it is now the wardrobe's pretty drab. What's the point in having a smokin' body like this one if you go around wearing a burlap sack?

"Anyways, as for your question….a devil's trap under the carpet is pretty unoriginal, don't you think? Like I had to work hard to figure that one out. I do have to say, though, that one you drew on the ceiling of your room in blacklight paint—I have to give you credit for that one. You almost got me. And the water guns filled with holy water? Cute. Not that any of that is doing you much good now."

Ignoring the seemingly never-ending stream of gloating, Lizbeth stole a few more glances at Amy's crumpled form, holding onto the ridiculous hope that she might show some small sign of vitality. But there was none to be seen. Her head was turned to the side slightly so that Lizbeth could see into those huge, blue, unblinking eyes. They had already begun to cloud over.

"Oh, she's dead as a doornail," 'Meg' said, flicking some cake at Amy.

Lizbeth balled her hands up into tight fists, letting her nails dig into the palms of her hands. The pain helped her focus—it kept her in the present. Crossing her legs, she slowly let her hand drift towards the left boot. It had her back-up plan: another small silver switchblade—the one Bobby had given her for her eighteenth birthday. It wouldn't do all that much damage, but it might buy a little time. She turned back to 'Meg' and leveled her with an icy glare. "Why the fuck are you here?" she spat bitterly. "What do you want from me? Or is the endgame of the entire operation to sit there and make a giant gloating speech like a mediocre Bond villain."

'Meg' rolled her eyes heavily and swung her feet off the table, scooting forwards and leaning in towards Lizbeth. "So what if I like to play with my food before I eat it."

"Until it comes back to bite you in the ass."

'Meg' giggled again, making Lizbeth seethe in anger. "Oh, you are adorable. I could watch you dance all day, but unfortunately I've got a job to do."

"Finally," Lizbeth growled, sliding her fingers inside boot and reaching for the smooth metal. "I was beginning to think that you just liked to listen to yourself talk."

Wincing theatrically, 'Meg' placed a hand over her head. "That hurts. But I'll let it go, just this once." She scooted in even closer, placed her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands, staring at Lizbeth intently. "I am here to find out why you are so goddamn boring."

Lizbeth froze for a moment, blinking in surprise. What the hell was that supposed to mean? She cleared her throat and straightened in her seat. "Well honestly, that's rather rude. I think I lead a pretty full life—friends, hobbies,a little ghost-hunting on weekends and holidays. I've got a lot of facets."

"Cute," 'Meg' said, raising a single eyebrow at her, "but that's not what I meant. Twenty-two years ago, you were given an incredible gift. You were chosen, one of a select few, one of his children, and nothing? Not even a single premonition, a tiny bit of mind control, or a soupcon of telekinesis. All of the others are coming along swimmingly, but you...not a damn thing. Why is that?"

Narrowing her eyes at the lunatic across the table from her, Lizbeth tried to parse out the words—to analyze them—but none of them made any sense. "Am I supposed to have any idea what the fuck you're talking about?"

"You are a complication," 'Meg' murmured, staring at her in a way that made Lizbeth feel like an amoeba being studied through a microscope.

Lizbeth scoffed loudly and folded her arms across her chest, hiding the small metal blade in her palm as she did so. "Are you expecting an apology?"

"I would appreciate one," 'Meg' replied casually, kicking Lizbeth in the shin. "I really haven't enjoyed the trip to suburbia."

Then the other girl yawned widely, squeezing her eyes shut, and Lizbeth took her chance. She threw herself out of her chair, sending it crashing to the floor behind her, and lunged across the table, planting that small silver blade firmly into the side of 'Meg''s neck before grabbing an nearby Britta pitcher filled with holy water and dousing her with it. Ignoring the screams that sounded just like her old friend's, she threw herself against the door that had closed her in, and this time managed to force her way through.

Stumbling slightly, Lizbeth careened through the apartment, desperately trying to make it out the front door. She was fiddling with the deadbolt, trying to unlatch the damned thing, but it kept sticking. Great. She was going to die because the super was a lazy jackass. After what felt like an eternity, the lock finally clicked open. But as soon as it did, Lizbeth felt herself being thrown across the room and pinned to the wall by some invisible force. It was like there was a hand on her throat, holding her in place and squeezing out the air.

"The Britta pitcher? Really?"

'Meg' slowly ambled towards her, looking simultaneously pissed and amused. "That hurt my feelings, Beth," she pouted. "And here I was thinking that the two of us were getting along so well."

"What can I say," Lizbeth gasped out. "When guests overstay their welcome, I have a tendency to act out."

Taking a few more steps forward, 'Meg' lifted a hand to Lizbeth's face and began smoothing the hair to the side in a way that was almost maternal. "I was so looking forwards to getting know you the fun way," she murmured, caressing Lizbeth's cheek with her thumb. "But I really don't have the time. So I'm going to fill you up, take a nice little stroll through all of your secrets, and then empty you out again. How does that sound?"

Leaving her pinned to the wall, 'Meg' left the room only to return a moment later, brandishing that same knife. It was still red with Amy's blood. "So where's that anti-possession tattoo thing that all you hunters seem to have?" she asked through another yawn, gesturing up and down Lizbeth's body with the knife. "You're way too much of a prude for a tramp stamp, so I'm going to guess….wrist?"

Lizbeth cringed inwardly as 'Meg' advanced on her. Using the knife, she easily sliced through the sleeve of Lizbeth's flannel shirt to reveal the tattoo underneath. "Look at that!" 'Meg' exclaimed happily. "Right in one. I should get a prize."

No screaming, no crying. That was a deal Lizbeth had made with herself a long time ago. No matter how bad it gets, no screaming and no crying. She refused to allow that sort of satisfaction. She clenched her teeth hard, doing her best to ignore the pain as the blade sliced through her skin.

'Meg' grabbed hold of Lizbeth's throat and stepped closer so that they were nose-to-nose. That insufferable smile reappeared, making Lizbeth stare back with as much venom as possible. After giving her one last pat on the cheek, 'Meg' grabbed hold of Lizbeth's face and forced her mouth open.

"Say ah!"

Thick, billowing clouds of black smoke began to pour out of 'Meg''s mouth and flew towards Lizbeth who stood there, immobile and helpless. She was waiting to choke on it, to feel someone else inside of her, taking her body and closing her mind off in a small corner to watch all of the terrible things her body was forced to do. She expected the worst. But it didn't come. As the smoke flew towards her, it was as if it hit some invisible barrier and was being repelled.

After a few moments of blind panic, the smoke retreated back into 'Meg', who stumbled back a few steps, looking dazed, surprised, and pissed.

"You know they say it happens to one in every eight," Lizbeth managed to cough out, feeling a bitter smile form on her face.

'Meg' let out a light-hearted laugh, but it couldn't fully hide the look of disconcertion. But then that look of determination morphed into something different entirely. Rage.

"You are just one giant complication."

All of the sudden, Lizbeth felt herself sliding up the wall. Up, up, and up, until she found herself pressed against the ceiling. Her hair had come loose and was hanging around her face, obscuring her view of the ground as she looked down. Another invisible hand was closing around her throat, but this time it had nothing to do with 'Meg'. It was panic. Panic and the sudden awareness that today was the day she would die.

'Meg' sashayed over so that she was standing directly below Lizbeth and smiled up at her. "It's nothing personal, Betty," she said brightly, "but you know what happens when the merchandise comes off the assembly line damaged. It goes straight to the incinerator. It's actually kind of poetic, you and mommy dearest going out the same way. Any last words?"

Lizbeth glowered down at her and said two simple words. "Fuck. You."

"Well that was just beautiful," she replied, placing a hand over her heart. "I'm going to go stitch that on a pillow."

With a final wave of her hand, 'Meg' strolled out, leaving Lizbeth there to wait for the fire to come. She shut her mind down, forcing all the bad out, and as the flames licked her body, she convinced herself that it tickled.

**So, what do you think? Please review! It's about 3am right now, so this might be absolute crap and I will probably go back and edit the hell out of it, but I'd still like some input! Love you guys, and thanks for reading.**


	2. Lizbeth Rising

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Shocking, I know, but the world isn't a perfect place.**

**Thank you so much to Padawan Phoebe and anna3311234 for favoriting, to for following, and to anna3311234 again for reviewing! You guys really have no idea how much I appreciate it. This is my first time writing in this fandom, and it's such a big fandom, so I'm feeling a bit insecure and you guys made me feel so much better.**

**Here's chapter 1! Again, it's mostly introduction, but it was a necessary transition chapter. I'm trying to do something original and new with my OC. Really this is Lizbeth's story more than anything, so in the first few chapters I'm trying to demonstrate how confused and scared she is while simultaneously doing character development and establishing her role. Anyways, I hope you like it.**

Chapter One – Lizbeth Rising

"Son of a bitch!"

The words forced themselves out of Lizbeth's mouth almost involuntarily as she was dragged into consciousness. Or at least they tried to. Her throat was so dry and scratchy it came out more as a sad, pathetic croaking noise than anything else.

Disorientation. That was the word she settled on to describe what she was going through right now. The pounding headache made it feel like she was staring at the sun with the bright light stabbing at her eyes even though she couldn't see anything at all. She could swear she could hear the insides of her lungs cracking slightly as she sucked in those deep panting breaths. It was completely quiet, but it felt like the silence was screaming at her. The sounds of screaming had been in her ears so long, being without them was just as jarring as when she had started listening.

Where the hell was she? The pain and the blistering heat that she had almost gotten used to was suddenly gone, and for some reason the cool, stagnant air around her made her skin sting, like she had been scrubbed down head to toe with a wire brush. Her eyes flew open and roved around searchingly looking for any indicator of her location, but all she was confronted with was an oppressive darkness. Wherever she was, it was pitch black.

Lizbeth reached out, feeling her way around her surroundings. Her fingers came into contact with the rough grain of some sort of wood. Six inches of space to her right and her left, six inches above her reclined figure. This was not good. This was very, very not good. Still examining her surroundings, her fingers met with some sort of soft fabric. She was wearing a dress, and Lizbeth wouldn't be caught dead in a dress. Or maybe she would, as it seemed increasingly obvious that she was right now trapped inside of her own coffin.

"Hello!" she called out weakly. "Is anybody there? Help!"

Squeezing her eyes shut, she slammed her hand into her forehead. "Don't be an idiot, Oswald," she whispered to herself. "Nobody can hear you."

Calm, steadying breaths—that's what she needed right now. Getting all claustrophobic and freaking out was not going to help her get out of the situation. That's when she felt a small, cold metallic object under her hand. She grabbed, feeling the edges to see what it was and then smiled, ignoring the stinging pain as the dried skin of her lips split and began to bleed. "Thanks, Bobby," she murmured hoarsely as she flipped open the switchblade and gently traced her fingers along the slightly rusted but still sharp surface.

Reaching upwards, Lizbeth felt along the roof of the coffin, searching for the edges of the planks of wood. Upon finding the seam, she slid the blade as far as she could and wiggled it from side to side, trying to loosen the boards. The rusted nails creaked slightly as they were wrenched out of the wood and Lizbeth pressed harder. A small space opened in the wood, allowing some dirt to spill in, covering her face and filling her mouth. Lizbeth tried to spit it out, gagging at the musty taste in her mouth, but the complete lack of saliva made it virtually impossible to do so and she was forced to swallow some of it down. Because that was entirely sanitary.

She pried at the wood with the knife for a few moments, but didn't make any headway. The knife wasn't long enough, there was enough leverage. She began pounding on the surface with her fists, smiling slightly as the wood cracked under her force. Eventually a line split in the wood large enough to fit her fingers through and she began to claw at the wood, ignoring the splinters being shoved under her nails. The crack began to widen, buckling under the weight of the dirt above. Lizbeth kept clawing and clawing, until eventually the wood gave way allowing the dirt to collapse in and crush her.

Lizbeth coughed as the dirt hit her chest, causing her to breathe it in and choke on it. She had to get to the surface. Slowly she managed to dig her way out. A small cry of victory erupted from her chest as she felt her hands break the surface. She could feel the sun beating down on her skin and grass beneath her fingertips. Soon enough she managed to extract her whole arm, followed by the other. Then it was her head and her torso. Her body slowly and painfully hauled itself out of the ground like the earth was giving birth to her. Now that was a disturbing thought.

As soon as she was free, Lizbeth tried to stand up only to fall to her hands and knees again. She coughed and spluttered. Her stomach twisted and she began to vomit, but without anything in her stomach the only thing travelling up her esophagus was acid. Allowing herself to lay down and catch her breath, Lizbeth rolled on her back and looked up at the sky. It was a sunny day with a blue sky and a few sparse clouds. Closing her eyes, she felt the sun beat against her skin. It was warm. Not burning and painful, it was a simple, comforting warmth. She had thought she'd never feel anything like that again.

Pushing herself up on her elbows, she took in her appearance. She was wearing a simple, knee-length dress that had probably once been a pristine white but was now yellowed with time and streaked with dirt and blood and a pair of neat, silver heels. Who the hell had buried her in that? She would have preferred one of her old flannel shirts and a pair of torn up jeans, but instead they opted to dress her up as Polly fucking Pocket.

Lizbeth clambered to her feet, removing those ridiculous shoes, and wiped the sweat and dirt from her face. And then, for the first time, she looked at the area surrounding her and cold fear flooded through her veins.

"Holy shit."

It looked like a massive explosion had gone off, and her unmarked grave was the blast point. Shrubs, trees, what was probably once a small wooden shed—it had all been flattened to the ground in a perfect circle. Lizbeth spun around frantically, her eyes raking over the scene before her, and what she saw dragged that troubling little question to the forefront of her mind. Why was she back? And who—or what—had brought her back? One thing was for sure. She needed answers. And she needed to get home.

Holding those shoes in her hand, Lizbeth stumbled out of that field, blindly trying to find her way to the nearest road. After what felt like hours, she came across a dusty 2-lane highway and she walked along the edge, weaving slightly as the dehydration and exhaustion took their toll. In the back of her mind it occurred to her that she probably looked like one of the movie extras at the end of 'Carrie'. Eventually she found a road sign. It read 'Topeka, KS 23 miles'. So she was in Kansas. Good to know.

The black asphalt burned the soles of her feet as she walked. She needed water. Badly. It was at least four hours before she found any hint of civilization whatsoever—a small diner on the side of the road with a giant neon sign and a poster of a dancing chicken on the front. Lizbeth tripped over her own feet as she climb those few steps and collided with the door with a loud thump. The sign read 'closed', but she rapped her bruised and bloodied knuckles against the door and stared in the window, just in case anybody was there. In her experience, breaking into already occupied buildings was never a good idea, legally speaking.

"We're closed!" a thick, feminine southern drawl called out from somewhere in the back. Lizbeth knocked again, louder and more insistently. "Didn' ya hear me? We're closed!"

Lizbeth banged her fist against the wall loudly and almost violently, upon which an older woman with too much eye makeup and bottled blonde hair with dark brown roots tied up in a high ponytail appeared from the back room, a scowl firmly planted on her face. "Will ya fuck off?! I said we're—"

The words died on the woman's lips as she wrenched the door open and took in Lizbeth's appearance. "Oh, honey! What the hell happened to you?"

"I could use a little help," Lizbeth croaked out, adopting a southern accent. It usually gave you an edge, identifying with people you were asking for help. If they feel like they share a connection with you, there a hell of a lot more likely give you a free meal or cash for a bus ticket.

"Of course, sweetheart," the woman said, snaking an arm under Lizbeth's shoulder and helping her in through the door. "Come on in."

Within ten minutes Lizbeth found herself sitting a window booth with a half-empty pitcher of water and a plate of steaming eggs and toast which she was shoving into her mouth at an alarming speed. The woman—Tammy—sat at the other side of the booth staring at her with a look of intense pity and alarm. "Ya know if eat that any faster ya might choke on it."

Lizbeth paused and put down her fork, dabbing at the corner of her lips with a napkin. "Sorry," she mumbled with a sheepish smile.

"Nothin' to be sorry about," Tammy replied, folding her arms across her chest. "But I think I deserve an explanation as to why there's a half-dead young lady sittin' at my doorstep."

Lizbeth swallowed hard and nodded. Time to come up with a valid story.

"The name's Caroline Brinkley," she said, holding her hand out to Tammy, forgetting its bruised and bloodied state. Tammy's eyes flickered down to it, taking in the abused appearance, and Lizbeth snatched it back, hiding it in her lap.

"The truth of it is," she continued, returning to her plate and taking a few giant bites of food, "I don't rightly know how I came to be here. See, I'm a student up at Kansas State University. I was pledgin' this sorority—the Phi Delts—and they took us to this party. I was havin' a lot of fun at first, an' then one of the older girls gave me some sangria. It was delicious, but then I started ta feel all woozy. I must've passed out 'cause next thing I know I'm wakin' up locked in some shed in the middle of a field God knows where. I had to force my way out and ended up scrapin' up my knuckles somethin' fierce. I think it might have been one of those hazin' rituals ya hear about on the news. My daddy told me I shouldn't join. I should've listened, but I can be so pig-headed sometimes."

"You poor thing," Tammy said in a maternal tone, stretching a hand out across the table.

Lizbeth allowed for a few self-conscious glances and a soft, insecure smile. Her father hadn't done all that much for her over the years, but he had turned her into a damn fine con artist. It probably wasn't something to be proud of, but it was certainly useful. Clearing her throat slightly, Lizbeth bit her lip in a vulnerable way and looked the woman sitting across from her full in the face. "Listen, Tammy, I hate to ask you for any more favors—you've been so kind to me already—but I was wonderin' if maybe I could borrow some clothes an' get myself cleaned up? And if I could use your phone, that would be great too. My daddy's probably worried sick."

Tammy stood up and made her way around the booth to clap a comforting hand on Lizbeth's shoulder. "Of course, sweetie. I've got a spare uniform in my locker that you can use an' the landlines in the back room. You can clean yourself up in the ladies room. You finish your food an' I'll go get those clothes."

Lizbeth nodded in thanks and returned to her plate while Tammy made a move to the back room, but then a question occurred to her. "Hey, Tammy?" she called out, making the woman pause and turn back towards her.

"Yeah, hun?"

"You wouldn't happen to know the date? My memory's a bit hazy."

Tammy shot her yet another pitying look. "It's September 18th."

"Right…." Lizbeth drew out, biting her lip nervously. "And what year is it."

Tammy blinked in shock and her jaw dropped open slightly, clearly not expecting that question. "It's 2008, Caroline. Are you sure you're alright? Do you think you've got a concussion or somethin'?"

"Nope," Lizbeth replied quickly, shaking her head and staring intently at her plate. "No I'm fine. Just checkin' is all."

Tammy afforded her one last suspicious look before disappearing into the back. She returned a few minutes later and placed a neatly folded white T-shirt and black pair of shorts on the table before returning to her work setting up the diner.

Three years. Those two words rang in her head. She had died almost three years ago, and now she was back topside again. Why was she back? It wasn't like she was complaining, but the possible answers to that question terrified. Whatever wanted her back walking the earth had waited almost three years, why was she so important now?

Grabbing hold of the clothes, Lizbeth quietly slipped out of the booth and darted past Tammy who was dancing along to the music blaring out of the jukebox while she mopped the floors. It didn't take her long to find the phone in the back office. She grabbed hold of the handset and eagerly punched in that same familiar number. "Come on, come on, come on," she whispered to herself, bouncing up and down on her heels in anticipation. "Come on, Bobby, pick up the fucking phone."

As if on cue, there was a loud click on the other end of the line. "Agent Tom Willis speaking."

"Jesus it's good to hear your voice," Lizbeth murmured into the phone. She was met with dead silence, making the smile forming on her face falter slightly. "Bobby? Bobby, it's Lizzie."

The only response she got was the sound of him hanging up. Sighing heavily, she dialed the number again, drumming her fingers against the table as it rang and rang. For a moment she thought he wasn't going to pick up again, but then she head the telltale click. "Who the hell is this?" he growled angrily. "What do you want from me?"

"Has anybody ever told you it's rude to hang up on someone?" she asked with forced levity.

"This ain't funny," he responded in a deadly tone. "I don't know who you sick bastards are or what you think you've got to gain by callin' me, but if you try again, I will fuckin' kill you."

Swearing under her breath, Lizbeth picked up the clothes and made her way to the bathroom. Yanking out about a thousand paper towels, she turned to the sink to soak them and her eyes fell on her reflection on the mirror in front of her.

It was the first time Lizbeth had actually gotten a proper look at herself since she crawled out of that hole in the ground. She looked broken. Dirt was smudged across her face and embedded in her hair and there was a deep, mangled gash on her left temple where one of the splintered boards had hit her when the grave caved in. She tentatively lifted one of her hands and lightly pressed her fingers against the wound, wincing slightly at the stinging sensation. It wasn't pretty, but she had suffered far, far worse.

Turning on the tap, she scrubbed at her hands, cleaning out all the nicks and cuts with soap as best as she could. Soon enough the waste basket began to fill up with piles of dirtied and bloodied paper towels as she wiped herself down. Slowly but surely, she was beginning to look more like an actual human being.

Reaching behind her, she grabbed hold of the zipper on that stupid fucking dress and yanked it down, letting it pool around her feet and kicking it to the side. "Good riddance," she mumbled under her breath. She quickly turned to grab Tammy's extra uniform from where it rested on the back of the toilet seat, but when she turned back to face the mirror, something made her freeze.

All of her scars were gone. Each and every one. That set of claw marks across her back that she had gotten when she was fourteen, hunting down that wendigo with her dad, that rippled and discolored circle of skin on her abdomen from the time that ghost had shoved her into a pipe, that series of almost clinical cuts that used to litter her forearm from that time the demon kidnapped her when she was sixteen—they were all gone. And she was pissed. She loved those scars, she had earned those scars. They were her badge of honor, her documentation of all the shit she had lived through, and they had been erased like lines on a chalk board.

There was only one mark left on her body—one indicator that she hadn't lived her life as a carefree coed—but it wasn't one she remembered getting. It wasn't one that she recognized. Lizbeth twisted slightly so that she could get a better look. The now smooth skin on the back of her waist was marred by an angry, blistered red handprint.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she whispered, running her had over the offending area. "What the fuck are you?"

Not wanting to dwell on that question any longer, Lizbeth yanked that white T-shirt over her head and pulled on those black short-shorts. The tightness of the outfit left her looking like an off-brand Hooters waitress, but it was still better than the fucking dress. She grabbed the comb Tammy had leant her and began violently brushing out her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. She needed to get home. She needed a proper shower, a warm bed, and some answers.

Lizbeth leaned forward, planting both of her hands on the stained porcelain of the sink in front of her, and stared to the mirror, analyzing her own reflection. What she saw made her blink in surprise. It wasn't that the reflection didn't look like her, because it did, but it was a different version of herself than the one she was used to before she had died. There was no makeup on her face, her eyes looked bloodshot, and her skin had a sort of sickly pallor to it. She looked old. Not old in that she suddenly had developed a set of wrinkles overnight that somehow turned her into a Disney witch, but old as in wearied. There were bags under her eyes that made them look purple and bruised, and there was a hollowness in her expression that made her look like the war veterans in some of those specials they run on the History Channel. She looked like someone who had seen too much. And she had. Jesus, she really had. And she seemed to get the distinct impression that more was coming.

Turning around, Lizbeth lifted the hem of her shirt and took another long look at the scar. What the hell was that thing? After a few moments she pulled it back down and smoothed down the clothes before exiting the bathroom and making her way back to the front dining area, that dirty dress of hers wedged under her arm and Bobby's knife tucked neatly into her pocket.

"You're lookin' better," Tammy said when she rounded the corner.

"Thanks," Lizbeth said through a smile. "I'm feelin' a lot better too. I talked to my daddy an' he's—"

Lizbeth's easy lie was cut off when the music from the jukebox began to falter. It was fading in and out, being overtaken by static. Tammy walked over and smacked the thing to get it working again. "I keep tellin' the manager they need to replace the damn thing," she whined. "But I'm just a waitress. Nobody ever listens to me."

Lizbeth was about to smile and say something sympathetic, but all of the sudden the TV they kept in the corner of the room flipped on of its own accord and the noise of static filled the room. Tammy grabbed the remote and turned it off, but almost immediately it turned itself on again.

"What the—"

A piercing, high-pitched sound began to ring in Lizbeth's ears. She glanced over at Tammy, who had her hands pressed over her own. "What the hell is that?" Tammy called over.

Lizbeth swore under her breath. "Where do you keep your salt?" she called out, letting the southern accent drop.

"Why the hell do you need salt?"

"Just tell me where it is!"

Lizbeth made a move towards the kitchen, but before she had the chance, the ringing noise became unbearable. She stumbled and fell to her knees, clapping her hands over her ears as her face screwed up in pain. The screens of the television and jukebox began to crack and Lizbeth could see the windows begin to bend as the noise began to grow.

"Get down!" she shouted at Tammy. "Get under one of he tables and cover your face!"

Tammy looked at her with wild-eyed confusion, mascara streaking down her face with her tears. She seemed to understand what Lizbeth was saying, though, because she dove under the table as soon as the glass began to shatter. Lizbeth wedged herself under one of the booths, covering her face with her arms as small shards hit her, causing a thousand tiny nicks.

After about a minute, the sound subsided, but Lizbeth's ears still rang. It was like watching one of those war movies when a bomb goes off and all of the sudden the sound is all muddled as if you were trying to listen to a conversation while your head was under water. Slowly, Lizbeth moved her arms away to find Tammy staring at her with an expression of terror and accusation.

"Who the fuck _are_ you?" she demanded.

Lizbeth decided not to answer, not just because she didn't want to but because part of her wasn't quite sure anymore. She grabbed her things and sprinted out of the diner, ignoring the tiny shards of glass sticking into her still bare feet, and burst through the front door.

There were two cars sitting in the parking lot, an old beat-up pickup truck and a used, but well cared for Honda Civic. Lizbeth glanced back and forth between the two, debating which one to take. For a trip as long as the one she was about to make, the best bet would be the civic, but she couldn't make herself ignore the novelty license plate that read 'Tam-ster'. Okay. She was going with the pickup.

With the dress wrapped firmly around her arm, she swung her elbow back hard into the passenger side window, making the glass shatter and spill onto the seat. She quickly unlocked the door and climbed inside, pushing the seat back and laid down so that her head was below the steering wheel and her legs were resting against the seat back. Using Bobby's knife she popped out that panel and the wires fell out. She quickly pried out the right ones, cut them and stripped them and tapped them together until the engine roared to life. Sighing heavily, she sat up and placed her hands on the steering wheel. It was going to be a long trip.

Five and a half hours. That's how long it took her to get from Topeka, Kansas to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. She actively had to stop herself from slamming the pedal down and speeding her way there. Driving in a stolen truck was risky enough with the window bashed in. Throw in a traffic violation or two, and it would definitely end with an arrest.

It was mid-afternoon by the time she pulled into Singer Salvage Yard. She let the truck idle in front of the house for a few moments before climbing out. How do you tell someone that you're not dead anymore? Somehow she doubted showing up on the doorstep with a wide smile and shouting 'surprise!' at the top of her lungs would go over all that well.

Fuck it. She had to do it sooner or later.

She took a steadying breath as she walked up the steps to that front porch. She came to a stop on that old, faded welcome mat and raised her hand to knock. She paused for a moment and listened. There were voices inside, two of them. The way she remembered it, Bobby wasn't exactly well known for his hospitality. Shaking her head, Lizbeth tried to organize her thoughts and rapped her knuckles against the door three times.

She could hear footsteps approaching and the front door swung open to reveal somebody she definitely did not recognize. Tall, short sandy blonde hair, piercing green eyes—he was definitely attractive, but he was also not who she wanted to see. The guy—whoever the hell he was, looked her up and down with a curious expression on his face, his eyes lingering on her bare feet. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe, leveling her with a slightly accusing look.

"Who the hell are you?"

Lizbeth folded her arms across her own chest, mimicking his posture. "I could ask you the same question."

"I asked first."

"And I don't give a shit."

She brushed past him and stepped into the front room, inhaling deeply. It smelled just like she remembered—old books, cheap bourbon, and cigars. She had missed that smell.

"Hey!" the guy shouted roughly, following her as she marched inside. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Lizbeth ignored him and wound her way through the rooms. "Bobby!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "Bobby you get your old, drunk, curmudgeon-y ass out hear right now!"

"Look," the guy said, advancing on her, "I don't know you think you are, but—"

"Can it, Derek Jeeter," she said, holding up a hand to cut him off. "Robert Singer, you get in here right now or I swear to God I'll—"

"You'll what," a gruff voice said from somewhere behind her.

Lizbeth spun on her heels to find the voice. When she saw him, she couldn't stop the smile from creeping up on her face. He looked exactly the same—same beard, same ratty old hat, same everything. Clearing her throat, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver switchblade. Bobby's mouth fell open slightly when he saw it, but he snapped it shut just as quickly.

Flipping the knife open, she held it up for him to see. "Silver blade," she muttered, bringing it down to her forearm and drawing it across her skin and cutting a thin line before snapping it shut and tossing it over to him. He caught it easily and inspected it carefully, exhaling sharply as soon as he got a good look. When Bobby finally looked up at her, she shot him a soft smile. "Holy water?"

Bobby reached into his pocket and tossed her a flask which she quickly opened and poured down her throat. "Mmmmm," she drawled out, wiping at her mouth. "Refreshing."

Bobby didn't smile—he never smiled. He just gave a single definitive nod.

"It's good to see you, Lizzie."

The grin that spread across Lizbeth's face was so wide, her cheeks began to ache. She half-walked, half-ran towards him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face into his shoulder and taking a deep breath. It smelled like home. But she wasn't sure that she understood what that word meant anymore.

**So, what do you think? A bit of a rushed and inconsequential Dean introduction, but like I said earlier, it isn't his story, it's Lizbeth's, and what she was most concerned with was finding Bobby and finding out what's happening to her.**

**Please review! Pretty please.**

**Oh, and please forgive any typos. I'm terrible at proof-reading my own stuff. Other people's stuff I'm good with, but my own…different storye. (you see, that's funny because I misspelled the word 'story')**


	3. Road Trip

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Shocking, I know, but the world isn't a perfect place. Any familiar dialogue is taken from the show.**

**A huge thank you to GlasgowPotter, Light The Dark, and yinyang58 for adding the story to their favorites, to Catherine. alice, Kay. Erin, PadfootCc, The-Darkened Abyss, and back2vintage for following, and to anna3311234, Light The Dark, Kay. Erin, The-Darkened Abyss, and PadfootCc for reviewing! I love you guys.**

Chapter Two – Road Trip

Well, this was awkward.

Lizbeth wasn't quite sure what she was expecting the post-death reunion with Bobby to be like. They were never going to smile and laugh and skip through a meadow holding hands like people do in Claritin commercials. No, she had thought it would be more along the lines of a single exuberant, slightly angsty, and overly emotional hug followed by a moment of awkward silence and a firm handshake. Well that part at least had gone to plan, but everything after that….it was a steaming pile of awkward. Of all the possible scenarios she had run through in her head on that car trip over, none of them involved a staring contest some random hunter guy with pretty eyes and a sour face.

Tik, tik, tik, tik.

The only sound in the room was that old, antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room. She and blondie were sitting opposite each other at the broken down table in the dining room while Bobby rummaged around in the kitchen, probably for another bottle of liquor. The way the empties were scattered around the place, it looked like a nerdy high school kid had thrown a rager to get an 'in' with the cool kids.

Sighing heavily, Lizbeth ran her hands down her face and leaned back in her chair. "Bobby," she called over her shoulder, "if it's bourbon you're looking for, be sure to bring at least two glasses. I need to rehydrate. And none of the cheap stuff. I know you've got at least one bottle of 'Four Roses' under the sink hidden behind the industrial-strength bleach." Her gaze shifted back across the table, wrinkling her nose slightly at the face across from her. The way he was staring at her, you might think that she was a terrorist or a leper or something equally off-putting.

"You know if you keep scowling like that, you're going to age yourself prematurely," she said with a demure smile. "Crow's feet are a bitch."

He didn't respond. He just scoffed loudly and rubbed at his eyes, making Lizbeth roll hers in turn.

"So are you always this broody, or are you just practicing your 'Blue Steel' for some local men's perfume ads?"

He let out a bitter snort and raised his eyebrows at her. "Don't you mean cologne?"

"They're the same thing," she replied, folding her arms across her chest and adopting a defensive posture. "The only reason they give it a different name is so that men don't get all insecure and shit."

Again, they lapsed into another awkward silence and she was forced to listen to the ticking of that fucking clock. As beautiful as the thing was, all Lizbeth could really think about was how much she wanted to take a sledgehammer to the damn thing. She never liked that ticking noise. It had always felt like a countdown to her. Each little tick is another moment flying away as she got closer and closer to the grave. But maybe that fear shouldn't apply anymore, seeing as she had already survived dying once, as fucked up at that concept was.

"So how do you know Bobby?" the guy asked suddenly.

Lizbeth straightened in her seat and folded her arms on the table in front of her. She leveled the guy with a serious stare, suddenly feeling very possessive. "Bobby's family," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders.

"Really?" he asked in a skeptical tone, waving in her general direction. "Because I'm not seeing all that much of a resemblance."

"Well, if you want to talk biology, then no, he isn't," she muttered. "But in all the ways that matter he is. Family doesn't end with blood." For some reason something she said seemed to silence him.

"How do you know Bobby?" she asked, eyeing him with an equal degree of suspicion.

"Bobby's family."

Again with the awkwardness. Maybe this was what it was like for kids when their parents get divorced. One day you call dad and find out he's engaged with a whole new replacement family complete with a pregnant fiancée. And then they try and mend fences by making everybody sit down together for Thanksgiving dinner and try to ignore the fact that nobody wants to be there. Jesus fucking Christ. She really needed to get a handle on her metaphors. They were really getting out of control.

"So if Bobby's family," the guy continued, leaning forwards, "then why haven't I heard of you before?"

Lizbeth blew out a long breath and shrugged her shoulders again in as nonchalant a way possible. "Probably the same reason I've got no fucking clue who you are."

"And why's that?"

"I don't know," she replied sarcastically, leaning forwards and glowering at him. "It might have something to do with the fact that I've been a bit busy being dead for the past couple of years. Up until this morning that is."

"Wha—"

Any surprised exclamation that he was about to make was cut off abruptly when Bobby made his way into the room with three glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "So I guess the two of you've figured out that ya got a little somethin' in common," he said, plopping the glasses down on the table and pouring a not insignificant amount of amber liquid into each.

The guy let out a single bitter laugh, grabbed his glass, and downed the contents in one go. "What are you talking about, Bobby?" he said, slamming the glass back on the table. "Are you talking about the fact that we're both Aquariuses or the fact that we've both mysteriously arisen from the dead?"

"Wait, what?" Lizbeth demanded, looking between the two of them frantically. "You too?"

"Well I certainly ain't talkin' about your sparklin' personalities," Bobby interrupted, sitting down at the head of the table. "Dean Winchester, meet Lizbeth Oswald. Lizzie, this is Dean."

"Hold up, Winchester?" Lizbeth demanded, straightening in her seat suddenly and trying to assimilate the deluge of new data into her already confused brain. "Winchester as in John Winchester? I thought the two of you were on the outs. Something about a hunt in Idaho and shooting him with an ass full of buckshot if you ever saw him again?"

Bobby sent a fleeting look in her direction, a vaguely guilty expression on his face, once again giving her the distinct feeling that her adoptive family was cheating on her. "Yeah, well….things happened."

"Hey!" the guy—Dean—interjected, waving a hand in front of them. "While this reunion is all touching and heart-felt, we can hold hands and stare longingly at each other later. I think we've got some bigger priorities here." He turned to Lizbeth and gave her an expectant look. "How did you die?"

"Right," she replied, nodding her head in agreement. "Right. Well I guess it was about three years ago now. I showed up at my apartment and some demon bitch calling herself Meg possessed my roommate. She spouted some bullshit about me being boring—a complication. For some reason she thought I was supposed to be one of the Avengers or something, asking about mind control and telekinesis. She tried to possess me and then next thing I know she's pinning me to the ceiling and lighting me on fire."

There was the look of recognition that flickered across Dean's face for a moment. He blinked in surprise and his jaw twitched slightly. "And that's it?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at her. "That's all you know?"

For a moment she considered telling them the crack 'Meg' had made about her mother—them dying the same way—but she wasn't quite ready to bring that up yet. She wasn't sure what it might mean, and she sure as hell wasn't sure that she trusted this guy with her name let alone her life story. The name Winchester came with a pretty heavy reputation. Great hunter, intelligent, ruthless. Good to have at your side when your interests were aligned, but if they weren't...you had better be ready to save your own ass. From everything she had heard about John, every interaction with the family should come with a warning label: proceed with caution. And that was what she had every intention of doing.

"Yeah, that's all I know," Lizbeth said shortly, still studying him through narrowed eyes. "It's not like she tied me to a chair and gave me a detailed rundown of her plan."

"Do you remember anything else?" Bobby asked, diffusing the moment of tension. "After you got killed, that is."

Lizbeth blew out a long breath and shook her head. "Nothing really, I guess somebody wiped the hardrive," she responded quickly, tapping on her skull. "I've got no idea where I've been the past few years. One second I'm giving startlingly new authenticity to my Human Torch impersonation and the next I'm in a coffin wearing some ridiculous dress. It was all very 'Twilight Zone'. Oh, and then there's this."

She pushed the chair back and stood up, lifting up her shirt to reveal the angry red handprint on her waist. "It looks like I got groped by the son of Satan or some crap like that. Plus I'm pretty sure the damn thing is stalking me. Caught up with me at a diner off some dusty highway in Kansas. Blasted in all the windows."

Dean let out a loud groan and ran his hands down his face in frustration. "Well, shit."

Lizbeth shot him a questioning look upon which he stripped off that faded leather jacket of his and rolled up his left sleeve, revealing a handprint identical to her own. She let out a bitter laugh and sat back down, grabbing hold of her glass and pouring the contents down her throat, wincing slightly as the liquor burned. As soon as she was done, she slammed the glass back on the table and grabbed the bottle, pouring herself another one.

"Still think Sam made a deal to bring you back?" Bobby asked, nodding in Dean's direction.

"Okay, who the hell is Sam?" Lizbeth demanded, throwing her hands in the air in frustration.

"My brother," Dean said in that low, gravelly voice of his. "And I don't see what the hell else it could be."

Lizbeth scrunched up her face and gave him a skeptical look. "Are we talking a crossroads deal? What kind of idiot would make one of those?" If looks could kill, the one she got from Dean was a freaking massacre. Right. He was that kind of idiot. "Oh," she chirped sheepishly. "Sorry."

A silence fell over the three of them, leaving her listening to that damn ticking noise again.

"Look," she said suddenly, determined to break the silence, "if we think that a crossroads demon brought us back, it doesn't explain why I'm here. I mean, there's nobody here who would make that kind of deal for me. My soul should be exactly where I left it."

"Well maybe whoever this guy is just picked up a passenger on the way," Dean responded gruffly. "Maybe you're some sort of weird cosmic collateral damage, you ever think of that?"

"How does that make any sense?" Lizbeth demanded incredulously. "This big bad is dragging you out of hell and decides to make a detour and pick me up too? Out of the goodness of its heart?"

Bobby sighed heavily and took a long sip from his glass. "Are we really gonna try and find some logic to this situation? In case ya haven't noticed, the usual rules don't seem to be applyin'. Dean should be wearin' his insides on the outside and Lizzie, you be charcoal."

Dean slowly pushed himself up from the table, his hands planted firmly on the surface. "Look," he said, steely determination in his eyes. "My brother is in Pontiac, Illinois. I'm going to Pontiac, Illinois. We can listen to what he's got to say and go from there."

His jaw was set and his posture was tense. Lizbeth could tell this was something he was not going to budge on. She still thought the whole crossroads demon angle was a load a crap, though. There was far too much wrong with the scenario—the fact that she was there, the complete restoration of her body which had been barbecued like a 4th of July hot dog, the hand print. None of that seemed to be in line with a typical demon deal. But a thin lead was better than no lead at all. She was in.

"Fantastic!" Lizbeth declared, clapping her hands together with false levity. "Road trip. We can eat fast food, sing songs….it'll be like a family vacation, dysfunction and all."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, holding his hands up. "Slow your roll there, sweetcheeks. Who says you're coming? We're not selling Girl Scout cookies—this is some seriously bad mojo we've got going on here."

Lizbeth let out a bitter snort and pushed herself up from the table as well, moving so that she was standing toe-to-toe with Dean. She was going for a certain degree of intimidation, but that never really worked well when you were eye level with the nose of the person you were confronting. Still, though, she held her ground, flashing him a dangerous glare. "I don't know you, you don't know me, so I'm just going to let that one go, but don't ever patronize me. Next time I will beat you so bad you won't be able to find your own ass with both hands and a flashlight."

Dean shot Bobby an inquiring look, and Bobby simply shrugged in response, looking vaguely amused.

"Like it or not, I'm in this mess too," she continued, taking a step back from Dean and folding her arms across her chest. "If your brother's got some answers for me, I am going with you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go wash the death out of my hair. We'll be on the road in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I'll be in my room."

"Hold up," Dean spluttered, turning to Bobby. "She has a room?"

Not bothering to respond, Lizbeth grabbed her glass from the table and downed its contents before spinning on her heels and marching up the stairs. She could still hear Bobby and Dean having a not-so-hushed argument, but at the moment she really didn't give a shit. She made a beeline for the bathroom, grabbed one of those ratty old towels and yanked on the rusted lever to turn on the water. After a few moments of listening to the loud thunking noise of the pipes, the water came out of the showerhead with a violent spurt.

Carefully stripping off Tammy's old uniform, Lizbeth stepped under the cascading water and let out a relieved sigh. She may have just come to, but it had been literally years since her shower, and she felt like she was washing away some of the pain along with the dirt and blood. The flames licking her skin were extinguished. She scrubbed hard, enjoying the stinging sensation as the soap stung all the little nicks and cuts she had accumulated over the past day, and she came out the other side feeling shiny and new. Whatever the hell that meant.

Lizbeth stepped out of the shower and wrapped the ratty towel around her, padding down the hallway to the third door on the left—her room. Stepping through that door was like stepping through a time portal. Lizbeth Oswald, the teen years. The only difference was a thick layer of dust that littered every horizontal surface. By the looks of it, nobody had been in the room since she had left it.

It wasn't your typical teenage girl's room. There were no posters of cute actors or boy bands, or posters of any kind. There was a dresser, a desk, a bookshelf, and a bed in the far corner. No frills, no decorations, no nothing. Lizbeth was never one for embellishing things. Maybe it was a product of her earlier years. When you live your formative years living out of motels, you learn not to carry things with you. Sentimentality is just a waste of space.

There was one thing that had changed, though. On her bed there was an old, worn teddy bear with one eye missing. She had had that since she was a baby. She had taken it to Middlebury with her, and Bobby had went and gotten it back. Maybe there was a little room for sentimentality, after all.

After rifling through her old clothes, she pulled on a pair of old, ripped jeans, a tank top, and a flannel shirt and made her way down the stairs, combing her fingers through her stringy damp hair. Bobby and Dean were still sitting at the table, talking in hushed voices with serious expressions on their faces. When she walked into the room, they abruptly stopped speaking, leaving her looking at them expectantly.

"Well?" she demanded, shoving her hands deep in her pockets and raising her eyebrows at them. "Are we going or not?"

Dean rolled his eyes heavily as the two of them stood and began to move to the door. Lizbeth sighed heavily and scratched absently at her forehead. This was going to be a long trip.

(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)

Well, this was awkward.

The three of them had been on the road for four hours. About two hours into that, Bobby had decided to take a little nap in the back seat. Whether or not that nap was in any way affiliated with the flask of bourbon he had tucked in his breast pocket really wasn't something she wanted to think about. Anyways, it meant that she had spent another two hours in a brooding silence sitting next to a not-so-subtly hostile guy sitting next to her. And there were at least four more hours ahead of them.

Lizbeth sank low in the passenger's seat and propped her feet up on the dash, staring at her Converse sneakers and tapping her toes together. Every minute or so she could feel Dean's eyes on her, trying to measure her up or something, but every time she would steal a sideways glance at him, his eyes would flick back to the road. Jesus fucking Christ. If this went on much longer she might have to do something drastic like throw herself out of the window.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Lizbeth twisted in her seat so that she was facing Dean. "Okay, look," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "you've obviously got some sort of problem with me. That's fine, whatever, I don't really give a crap. But if we're going to be stuck in this car for another four hours, I'd rather not have to deal with all the tension. It's exhausting and annoying as hell. So let's get some sort of 'conflict resolution' thing going. If it comes to it, we can pull over to the side of the road and do some trust falls."

Dean's hands gripped the steering wheel a little bit tighter and he shot her a few sidelong glances, considering his options. After a few moments, he nodded slightly. "Alright, Lizzie—"

"It's Beth," she interrupted, making him look at her. She shrugged and folded her arms across her chest self-consciously. "There have only ever been three people who get to call me Lizzie. Two of them are dead and the other's in the back seat snoring like a bear with emphysema."

"Fine, _Beth_," he continued, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "I don't have a problem with you. I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. Bobby seems to think you're good people and that means something, but frankly I'm not quite on board with this road trip yet."

"I get it," she replied, biting her lip and nodding. "You've got your little team together. You know each other's business, keep each other's secrets, share each other's problems. That's fantastic for you, but right now your problems are my problems, so I'm not going anywhere." She could see his jaw twitch slightly at her words. He didn't trust easily, but then again nobody did in their line of work. "How's about twenty questions?" she said tiredly. "Ask me anything you want."

He studied her for a moment, judging her sincerity, and then nodded again. "Okay," he said in a measured tone. "Let's start out with how you know Bobby. Why have I never heard of you before?"

"Well, Bobby's never exactly been a 'sharer'," she said using air quotes. "Maybe he didn't think I was a relevant topic of conversation."

"But you've got a room in his house. How exactly did that work out?"

Lizbeth blew out a long breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. That wasn't a story she really liked to share, let alone think about in the first place. It was a long story, filled with teenage angst and daddy issues. It was a story she had locked away in the filing cabinet in the corner of her brain in a metaphorical manilla envelope labeled 'shit not to think about'. She didn't like dredging up the past. But she also didn't like never-ending, tense silences. Fuck it. Time to open up the 'sharing circle'.

"My dad was a hunter," she said, absently picking at her nails. "My mom was killed when I was a baby—something to do with a demon. He never really shared the details, but that was dad. I used to go along with him on his hunts—I'm sure you know what that's like—but then one day when I was sixteen after an….incident, he dropped me off at Bobby's—said the hunt he was going on was too dangerous for me. He was supposed to pick me up in a couple of days. A couple of days turned into a week, turned into a month….before I know it I'm done with high school and Bobby's the one going to my graduation. Then I went to college, then I died. That's it. That's my story."

Dean let out a long, low whistle. "Did you ever hear from your old man again?"

"Nope," she said popping the 'p'. "He would send me postcards on my birthday, but that's about it. I think we've parted ways on a permanent basis."

"Don't you think you should let him know that you're alive?" he said, judgment coloring his voice.

"I think that might be a bit difficult seeing as he's dead."

Dean's head snapped around to look at her, an expression of pity and confusion covering his face. "If the two of you never talk, how do you know he's dead?"

Lizbeth just shrugged. "He stopped sending postcards."

Another silence fell over them as they bumped along the poorly paved highway. Dead dads, not exactly the most uplifting of topics. Then again, at the moment there weren't many topics up for discussion that weren't depressing as hell.

"So how did you die?" she asked suddenly. Once again, Dean's hands clenched on the wheel of the car, this time with a grip so tight that she could see his knuckles straining against the skin above them. "Hey," she said, throwing up her hands in submission. "I showed you mine. I'm just asking for you to reciprocate."

Dean ground his teeth loudly, but eventually nodded in assent. "Alright, fair's fair."

"Great," she said, clapping her hands together eagerly. "Story time. I thought we were going to be stuck playing I-Spy or singing showtunes. No points for originality there."

He rolled his eyes heavily, but the smallest ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, making her grin widely in response. "Has anybody ever told you you're an idiot?"

"Yeah, but they were all wrong."

He actually chuckled at that, shooting her a small smile. "Fine," he said, scratching at his neck absently. "My brother Sammy went and got himself killed, so I made a deal for his life. One year later, I'm a hellhound's chew toy and my soul gets dragged down to the pit."

"Yeesh," Lizbeth said, wincing theatrically. "You only got a year? Man, you are a seriously shit negotiator."

Dean snorted again and shook his head. "Well it wasn't exactly a seller's market, is it?"

"Yeah," she said through a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I guess not."

Lizbeth wondered what that must be like, to care about somebody so much that you were willing to give up the one thing that was completely and utterly your own. She had never known anything like that—she had never loved or been loved to that extent. And she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. In her experience, caring about something was just setting yourself up for pain later. Because losing the things you love—the people you love—was inevitable. It was just a matter of time.

"Where do you think you ended up, anyway?" Dean asked, elbowing her in the side. "After you bit it?"

Lizbeth let out a scoff and shook her head. "I've got no fucking clue. Like I said earlier, lights out and then back in business. As for where I was…..Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, the DMV—"

"Yeah, well I'm pretty sure the last two are the same thing," Dean shot back cheekily.

She stole another glance at him out of the corner of her eye. "So you really think your brother's behind this? Isn't it a bit of a vicious cycle if the two of you keep bailing each other out of the big house?"

"Yeah," Dean sighed out, "Sammy's a smart kid, but he's kind of an idiot."

Dean kept his eyes fixed on the road, and Lizbeth studied his profile, trying to gauge his expression. "There's more isn't there?"

"What do you mean?"

Lizbeth pressed her lips together in a thin line and gave him a knowing look. "I mean that you really, really don't want this to be because of your brother, but you're also pretty freaking terrified that it's not him."

He gritted his teeth before he replied. "Why would you go and think something like that?"

"Because," she drew out slowly, "if it's not him, then what the hell is it?"

Groaning loudly, Dean rubbed at his jaw. "We've found ourselves in a bit a situation, haven't we?"

"Yup," she said through a sigh.

Trust. It was obviously something neither she nor Dean allowed for lightly. He wasn't telling the whole truth, that was for damn sure, but then again neither was she. Trust was a rare commodity in their business, because trust could make you vulnerable-it opened you up to betrayal. You didn't bestow it on somebody until you were sure of them, and usually the fleeting nature of alliances didn't allow for that degree of certainty. Bobby was the only person she truly trusted. Bobby trusted Dean, and Dean was right when he said that that meant something. But the transitive property didn't exactly apply in this scenario. She didn't trust Dean, but for their current purposes, trust wasn't necessary. All they needed was an understanding, and she could deal with that.

"So what do you say?" Lizbeth asked through a wide yawn, punching Dean lightly in the arm. "Am I a temporary member of the Scooby Gang, or what?"

He gave her an appraising look and nodded hesitantly. "Maybe. We've been looking for a Velma."

Lizbeth rolled her eyes and looked out across the road in front of her. "Thanks, Daphne. I appreciate that."

**Okay, so that was a lot of dialogue and not too much action, but they were sitting around a table and sitting in the car, so dialogue is what you get! I hope you liked it!**

**Please review.**


	4. Brothers

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Shocking, I know, but the world isn't a perfect place. Any familiar dialogue is taken from the show.**

**A huge thank you to Julietta17, Penn Langley, Vongola Primo12, FlyingWingsWithoutLove, HippyElephant, xxLiveLoveReadxx, and Soles in Aeterum for adding the story to their favorites, to Ajaybecker, Jordan Lynn 7, fred21, ring of roses, Hellchaser, Jounin Saryn, blackbeltgirl95, and LatinBookReader for following, and to anna3311234, The-Darkened Abyss, and xxLiveLoveReadxx for reviewing! I love you guys.**

**Alright, so I'm not sure how I like this chapter. I'm kind of in a writing rut, so this might seem king of forced or stilted, but I can't agonize any longer so I decided to post. I was going for serious and funny, but hopefully not too glib. Lizbeth is the type of person who copes through humor, so no matter how serious stuff gets, she'll have a quip or a joke, not always socially appropriate. She was raised out of hotels with her dad and other hunters, so she's a bit rough around the edges. She's also not all that socially well-adjusted, so…..I might go back and edit it. Anyways, I hope you like it. Blerg.**

**Long author's notes are long.**

Chapter Three – Brothers

The Astoria Hotel, pride and joy of Pontiac, Illinois. Or, as she decided to think of it, the Ast-whore-ia Hotel. Pay by the hour, 24 hours a day, no questions asked. Great. The illustrious Winchester numero dos was holed up in a low rent cesspool of sexual deviancy and venereal disease that smelled heavily of cat urine and broken dreams. Yet another reason this day sucked to an epic degree.

Lizbeth sat next to Bobby on the hood of his truck, waiting for Winchester numero uno to finish up with the clerk and studiously ignoring all of the lewd glances she was receiving from the clientele. They weren't what worried her. What worried her was the curmudgeon-y old idiot sitting next to her. Her knee was bouncing up and down nervously as she kept stealing sidelong glances at him. Glances which he obviously noticed but refused to acknowledge.

Sighing heavily, she drew her legs towards her, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her knees. "So are we going to talk about it?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Talk about what?" he asked gruffly.

"About the reason you haven't been able to look at me for more than ten seconds at a time," she replied bluntly. "And about the fact that you've started drinking again."

He let out a loud harrumph and rolled his eyes. "You'll have to remind me when I stopped in the first damn place."

"There's drinking and then there's drinking," she replied, nudging him in the side. "I want to know when you started up with the second, italicized version of that word. When your house started looking like a frat house after a kegger."

He still didn't look at her, staring instead at a muddy puddle on the ground in front of him. "It's been a tough coupla years, Lizzie. A lot's happened since you got put in that box."

"That's not much of an answer," Lizbeth prodded.

"Yeah, well it's the only one you're gonna get," he growled under his breath. "I don't know where the hell it is you idjits got the idea that you gotta take care of me. Y'all need to mind your own damn business. I don't need any fixin'."

Lizbeth leaned forwards slightly, trying to get a better look at Bobby's face. Most was shadowed under that goddamn baseball cap he always wore, and the rest was streaked with red from the neon light of the hotel sign above their heads. He was trying his hardest to hide himself from her, but she recognized the expression on his face. And it seriously pissed her off.

"Goddamnit, Bobby," she groaned, rubbing at her forehead to stave off the headache that was beginning to form. "Just stop it, okay? Just don't even go there."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"That look," she said waving her finger at his face. "I don't want to see that look on your face."

"It's just my face," he mumbled in confusion. "I ain't really got a lot of faces."

"Yeah, that's kind of my point," she shot back bitterly, poking him hard in the shoulder. "What I'm seeing is your 'I deserve all of this self-inflicted emotional torture' face. It's your guilty face. And you don't have a damn thing to feel guilty about."

A deep, grumbling laugh exploded out of Bobby's throat like a crash of thunder, throwing her off-guard. "I told ya not to worry so much—I told ya it was all in your head—and then twenty minutes later I'm gettin' a phone call from Officer Friendly tellin' me that you're dead. There's a pretty straight line between those two things."

Shit. Guilt was like an infectious disease. Bobby was feeling guilty about the circumstances surrounding her death and she was feeling guilty about being the product of his guilt. Then he would probably start feeling guilty for that. The whole thing was one big goddamn vicious cycle—the snake eating its own tail. Well, fuck that. This cycle was ending now.

Lizbeth hopped off the hood of Bobby's truck and squeezed her ands into fists, shoving them deep into the pockets of her dad's old bomber jacket she found in her closet. It still smelled like her old man—of bourbon, motor oil and cigars—but maybe that was just her imagination. After a few moments of pacing back and forth in front of the truck she came to a halt, facing Bobby. She squared her shoulders and did her best to look intimidating, which might have actually worked if he bothered looking at her. She was sick of people actively not looking at her, avoiding eye contact with her like she was some sort of inconvenience or…complication. Jesus, when did things become so difficult?

"What the hell were you supposed to do, Bobby?" she asked in a tired voice, taking another step towards him. "Teleport from South Dakota to Vermont? That technology is at least ten years out. So until people are beaming themselves up to the U.S.S. Enterprise, you can calm the fuck down and stop being such a masochistic, mopey buzzkill? I'm alive, okay? So let's hold hands and sing Kumbabya and forget about all this other stuff. Because if I have to see another guy with that broody expression on his face, I am going to start hitting people. I don't know why I'm back topside, but I'm pretty sure it's not so I can attend my own wake."

He finally looked up at her, but his expression was inscrutable. He opened his mouth slightly, presumably to give her some insight into his well-concealed man-feelings, but that moment there was a loud banging noise from behind her, followed by a steady stream of curses. She twisted around to see Dean storming out of the lobby. Lizbeth wrinkled her nose and looked past him through the glass doors to see an incredibly smug, nerdy looking teenager smirking after him, looking supremely pleased with himself. She allowed herself a small smile. The kid was clearly enjoying his little power kick.

"The goddamn kid wouldn't give me the room number," Dean shouted, throwing his hands in the air in frustration and kicking an errant beer can that lay in his path. "He kept spewing something about 'clients wanting to maintain their confidentiality'. I swear to God, if he smiles at me one more time, I'm gonna have to spread the pain."

"Really?" Lizbeth snorted, raising her eyebrows at him. "Ghosts, demons, and werewolves are another day at the office for you people, but put you in the room with one of the cast of _Dawson's Creek_ and you fold?"

He came to a stop in front of her and gave her the strangest look—like she had grown a second head. "_Dawson's Creek_? Really?"

"What?" she demanded defensively, tightening her fists which were still firmly shoved in her pockets. "Is that reference not relevant anymore? I'm sorry, but being dead has kind of gotten in the way of keeping up with pop culture."

"Even being dead isn't an excuse for making that reference," he replied dryly. "Under no circumstances should anybody ever make that reference."

"I'm not saying I watched the show," she shot back. "I was taking advantage of it's ridiculousness for the sake of mockery. I could've just as easily gone with _Beverly Hills 90210_ or _Clueless_—or even_ The Breakfast Club_ but that's a movie—"

"Can you two idjits shut up an' focus on the problem," Bobby interrupted, finally clambering off the hood of the truck himself. "Sam's in that building an' I'd rather not knock on every single door tryin' to find him."

Dean sighed heavily and scratched absently at his forehead. He was on his last nerve, and she didn't blame him. The only thing between him and his brother was pimply-faced, sadistic teenager. "I think he'd start talking after a couple of twenties made their way into his pocket," he mumbled. "But I haven't exactly had a chance to drop by the bank."

Lizbeth pursed her lips and nodded to herself, settling on an easy solution. "Keep your money," she said, slipping off her jacket and throwing it in the passenger seat of the truck. "We've got other options. I've got something that'll work a hell of a lot better than money." Dean looked at her with a confused expression, making her pause. "Boobs," she elaborated, gesturing in the general direction of her chest. "I'm talking about boobs, the kryptonite of the horny male teenager. Or male adult. Or just generally anybody carrying a 'y' chromosome."

Forcing her flannel overshirt into Dean's hands, she pulled down on the neckline of her tanktop to show some more cleavage. Glancing up at him, she noticed his eyes, sliding down her neck and continuing to move lower. She snapped her fingers in front of his face, making him start. "Eyes front, soldier," she said, pointing at her own eyes. "This is purely professional sluttiness."

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and shifted on his feet, looking at Bobby to see whether or not he was going to get his ass kicked. Bobby met his gaze with a sort of menacing silence that seemed to make Dean even more uncomfortable. It was actually kind of endearing—the degree of discomfort he seemed to be experiencing.

"Don't be such a girl, Dean," she said, patting him on the arm condescendingly. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and shook it out, letting it cascade down on her shoulders before turning to the lobby. "Okay," she continued, combing her fingers through the red locks to give them some semblance of order rather than the usual tangled mess, "what's the name the room is registered under?"

"Wedge Antilles."

Lizbeth snorted and shot him a disbelieving look. "Wedge Antilles? Really? When it's your turn to pay is the room registered to a Mr. Luke Skywalker?" Dean's mouth opened slightly in surprise, making her roll her eyes in response. "Yes, I've seen _Star Wars_. Big reveal."

Spinning on her heel, she marched towards the lobby, flipping her hair over her shoulders and getting into character while Bobby and Dean trailed after her. She wrenched open the door violently, making the bell ring loudly and causing the guy at the desk to jump, almost toppling out of his chair. He straightened suddenly and did his best to appear nonchalant. Lizbeth bit back the laugh that was trying to force its way out of her throat and pretended not to notice the little display, instead letting an easy, flirty smile slide across her face.

"Hi there….Bruce," she said with a little wave, leaning over the desk and narrowing her eyes slightly to read his name tag. "How are you doing?"

"F—fine," he stuttered out, swallowing heavily. "The night shift kind of sucks, but overall—"

"That's great," she interrupted, making sure that smile stayed firmly implanted on her face. "Hey, listen—"

Her words were cut off again as the bell rang again and Lizbeth glanced over her shoulder to see Bobby and Dean walking through, both of them with somber, serious expressions on their faces. Great. The dark cloud descends. When she turned back to face 'Bruce' he was eyeing the guys suspiciously.

"Hey, Bruce," she whispered conspiratorially, leaning in further to draw the attention back to her, "I was wondering if you could do me a little favor."

"Yeah," the kid said, nodding enthusiastically. "Yeah, what do you need?"

"Well, it's my ex," she said, wincing and letting a pained look cross her face. "When we broke up, he stole a lot of stuff from my apartment—jewelry, credit cards, all sorts of stuff. My dad, my brother, and I—" she jerked her head to indicate the two idiots standing behind her "—we've driven all the way from Ohio to find him. We know he's staying here…the asshole used my credit card to book the room. If you could tell me where he is, you would really be saving me." She reached forward and covered his hand with hers, making him twitch slightly. "You have no idea how much I would appreciate it."

(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)

"Seriously, it's just not fucking fair," Dean groaned as they made their way up the stairs towards room 207. "How is it that girl's can get away with this stuff so easily?"

Lizbeth grabbed her flannel overshirt from Dean and slid it back on over the tanktop, pulling the neckline back up again. "You work with what you've got," she replied simply, tying her hair back up in a messy bun. "You've got the intimidation thing down, I'm sure. Problem is our geeky little friend Bruce over there would just love to screw over the quarter-back. But helping out the cheerleader with her trig homework? That's a different story. Rule one of the con: always know your audience."

"I know rule one of the con," he muttered bitterly. "It doesn't change the whole gender discrimination aspect to it."

"How's about getting some implants and changing your name to Deanna?" she suggested casually. "That might even up the odds."

He let out a snort and shook his head. "Nope. They're staying as is."

Lizbeth looked him up and down appraisingly and nodded in agreement. "Good choice," she said, smacking him on the back. "They're good boobs."

"Would the two've you shut the hell up and climb the goddamn stairs?" Bobby growled from behind them.

"Oh, Bobby, there's no need to be jealous," Lizbeth called over her shoulder. "You've got good boobs too. The years have treated them really well. Not too saggy."

"Shut your goddamn mouth."

Smirking at the angry mutterings being issued from behind her, Lizbeth continued to climb the stairs. Truth be told Lizbeth had never been good at any of that sort of girly shit—the hair, the makeup, and the flirting. She could keep up that fake smile for about ten minutes, but after a while she just couldn't handle it—laughing at jokes that weren't funny and taking small sips from overly sweet pink cocktails. It was her nightmare. Beer, pool, darts—that was what she had grown up with, and that's what she loved. It made for a fairly abrupt personality. When someone was being an ass, she told them they were being an ass—simple as that. There was no room for makeup and Cindi Lauper when you were hustling pool at the ripe old age of thirteen.

Without a mom, she had gotten around to that kind of thing. It was an absolute nightmare when she had gotten her first period. It wasn't exactly something her father was prepared to help her out with, so she read about the whole thing on WebMD and actually had to shop-lift her first tampons from the drugstore. One of the clerks had actually caught her—how fucking embarrassing was that? He had let her go though. He even paid for the tampons out of his own pocket. Lizbeth did learn a very important lesson that day—one that she would carry with her for the rest of her life. When it came to crying girls or tampons, guys would do whatever they had to do to get out that situation as soon as they possibly could. All the rest of that stuff, though, she had just never gotten around to learning about it. It was more of a fake-it-till-you-make-it course of study. And apparently faking it required excessive amounts of smiling.

The three of them finally made their way up the stairs and opened the door leading to the right floor. What Lizbeth saw made her cringe slightly. The inside of the 'hotel'—a term to be used loosely—was just as seedy as the outside. The ceilings were painted a garish red that matched the overly plush shag carpet below and all the walls were covered in a cheap-looking wood paneling. Top that off with the fact that the room numbers were ensconced in little hearts, and Lizbeth was fairly certain she had been transported back in time to some sort of 1970s swingers club.

Lizbeth let out a low whistle as they made their way to the right door. "This is the setting of all my sexual nightmares."

Ignoring her, Dean took a single, definitive step towards the door, shooting them one more glance that clearly read 'here goes nothing' before knocking on the door. It opened almost instantaneously to reveal a pretty brunette with wide brown eyes wearing nothing but a wifebeater tee and a underwear. She looked between the three of them with a mixture of expectation and incomprehension.

"So where is it?" she demanded aggressively, still looking at each of them.

Lizbeth blinked in confusion and folded and stole a glance at Dean and Bobby, both of whom appeared equally bemused. "Where's what?" Dean asked casually.

The girl scoffed and raised her eyebrows at them in disbelief. "The pizza?" she drawled out sarcastically. "The one that takes two guys and some chick to deliver?"

"This feels like the outtakes to a crappy porno," Lizbeth muttered under her breath.

"Shut up, Lizzie," Dean muttered out of the corner of his mouth before turning back to the girl. "I think we've got the wrong room."

The three of them were about to turn away and head down the hall, when all of the sudden another figure appeared in the doorframe. For a second Lizbeth thought she had finally come face-to-face with Sasquatch, but as soon as the guy saw them standing there in the doorframe, he came to a sudden halt. Taking one small step towards them he moved into the light, revealing not big foot but an exceptionally tall, well-built guy with shaggy brown hair and brown eyes. Given his sudden inability to speak and the fact that his mouth was opening and closing like a dying fish, Lizbeth was left with one conclusion.

A silly sort of smile crossed Dean's face as looked at the other guy. "Hiya Sammy."

Dean brushed past the girl and took a few slow steps towards the guy—Sammy, his brother. By all indications they were gearing up for a warm, heartfelt man-hug, when all the sudden Sammy lunged forwards, shoving Dean into the wall, knife in hand. Immediately, she and Bobby rushed forwards, grabbing Sammy by his shoulders and holding him back. Bobby started shouting something, but Lizbeth couldn't hear it over the blood pounding in her ears. Instead, her reflexes kicked in. She lifted her foot and brought it down hard on the back of the guy's knee, causing it to buckle as he fell to the floor. She snaked one arm around his neck to hold him in place and used the other to grab his wrist. She twisted his arm behind his back before getting a grip on his thumb and yanking it back until he was forced to drop the knife.

"Everybody needs to calm the hell down!" she heard Bobby shout, breaking through her reverie. "Sam, it's him! I've been through this before! It's really him!"

The guy—Sam—stopped fighting them and became still. His breaths were coming out in heavy pants as he stared at Dean. Lizbeth looked up at Dean, feeling her stomach clench at the look on Dean's face, somewhere between hurt, wistful, and ecstatic. Slowly, she released her hold on Sam, who at this point seemed to be in a state of shock. He exhaled sharply and shook his head. "B—but—"

"Yeah, I know," Dean breathed out, smirking lightly. "I look fantastic."

The moment that followed seemed to last a lifetime, but eventually Sam lunged forward a second time, this time wrapping Dean in a huge hug. When they finally broke apart, they just stared at each other for a moment, exchanging stoic nods. Big, strong men being manly and emotionally constipated. A crooked smile made its way across Lizbeth's face as she rolled her eyes. Somehow the two of them managed to make the interaction both heart-warming and annoying as hell.

All of the sudden there was a light coughing noise, making the lot of them turn to the door where the semi-dressed brunette was still standing, looking confused and, honestly, a little bit cold. "So are you two like…..together?" she asked, pointing between Sam and Dean.

"W—what?" Sam stuttered, furrowing his eyebrows. "N—no. No. He's my brother."

"O—oh, I got it, I guess," she mumbled, nodding along with her words. "Look, I should probably go."

"Yeah," Sam agreed a little too quickly. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

The five of them just stood there for a while, just staring at each other. It was like one giant incestuous orgy of awkward and facepalming. It was times like this that Lizbeth always felt like she had to fill the conversational void. "Family reunions, am I right?" she drawled out, shoving her hands in her pockets and rocking back and forth on her heels anxiously. "People always wind up trying to kill each other."

Sam and the girl looked over at her, the words 'who the fuck are you' spelled clearly on their faces. Yeah, that definitely didn't help the situation.

(*)*(*)*(*)*(*)

For Lizbeth the next few minutes were like watching a crappy reality TV show. The entire thing was entirely ridiculous. She sat in the corner of the room, her eyes raking over her surroundings. It was like all the reject furnishings of Studio 54 had been shoved into a single hotel room. The walls were covered in a tiger-print fabric and all of the lights were covered in red shades that cast a glow in the room that was probably intended be sensual, but just ended up making her feel kind of dirty. That in combination with the black lacquered furniture and carpet turned the place into a veritable 1970s shag shack. The fact that there was a girl wandering around, searching for her clothes while Dean stared at her ass with no degree of subtlety was just the cherry on top. As she was finally being ushered out the door, Lizbeth gave her a small wave goodbye, earning her one of the more terrifying death-glares of her lifetime.

"So, call me," she girl chirped as she made her way out of the hotel room.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, leaning on the doorframe. "Sure thing, Kathy."

The girl blinked, the smile falling from her face. "It's Krissy."

The snort that forced its way out of Lizbeth nose wasn't all that well concealed. Of course her name was Krissy—it sounded like the name of the busty coed who gets killed at the beginning of horror movies because she's too stupid not to go into the creepy dark basement. Or maybe she was being overly judgemental.

"Right," Sam muttered, nodding. The girl pressed her lips together in a wan smile, leaving Sam to close the door behind her. He walked back to the center of the room and plopped down on the velvet-covered couch, having the decency to look slightly ashamed and, for some reason, actively avoiding his brother's gaze.

"So tell me, what did it cost?" Dean asked gruffly from where he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and a grave expression on his face. All of the precious levity had left his voice.

Sam, clearly trying to avoid the conversation that was looming over all of their head, let out a light laugh. "The girl?" he asked through a boyish grin. "I don't pay, Dean."

"That's not funny, Sam," Dean shot back, unfazed by the sarcasm. "What did it cost? Was it just your soul or something worse?"

"You think I made a deal?" Sam

"That's exactly what we think," Bobby said, leveling Sam with a serious stare.

"That's not what I think," Lizbeth said from her corner, raising her hand in the air.

Sam turned towards her with a perplexed expression. "Who the hell are you?"

Dean pushed himself off the wall and took a few steps forward. "She's not important right now," he said, waving his hand absently.

"Hey, I have feelings," Lizbeth said through a loud scoff, moving from the windowsill she was perched on to sit on the arm of the sofa. "And believe it or not, I do have some relevance to this little situation."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned in frustration. "Fine, Li—Beth. We'll get to you soon enough. But for now can you shut your massive pie-hole for five minutes while I talk to my brother?" Lizbeth threw up her hands in submission and Dean gave a single nod of thanks. He turned back to face Sam, accusation written all over his face.

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, searching for the right words. "Look, Dean, I didn't make a deal."

Dean glowered back, unaffected by the denial. "Don't lie to me."

Sam exhaled sharply and stared back at Dean evenly. "I'm not lying."

"So, what now?" Dean barreled on, advancing on Sam. "I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this."

Something in Sam's cool veneer snapped and he threw himself to his feet. "Look, Dean," he growled, "I wish I had done it, alright?"

Lizbeth bit her lip and averted her gaze, instead opting to focus on the random tiger portrait that was hanging on the far wall. She couldn't help but feel like she was intruding on a very personal moment, and she was never one for voyeurism, particularly of the emotional variety. Now she had a front-row seat to what was possibly the most angsty, emotionally charged reunion of all time. She wasn't family, meaning she belonged there about as much as Krissy did. So she stayed out of the way—far out of the way.

Suddenly, Dean grabbed Sam by the collar and yanked him forward angrily. "There's only one way this could have gone down. Tell the truth!"

"I tried everything, Dean, that's the truth!" Sam shouted, shoving Dean away from him. "I tried opening the Devil's Gate—hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, alright! You were rotting in hell for months—for months—and I couldn't stop it! So I'm sorry it wasn't me, alright? Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean exhaled sharply and nodded, letting the tension leave his shoulders and seemingly satisfied with the answer. "It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize, I believe you."

"Don't get me wrong," Bobby interjected in a carefully moderated tone, "I'm glad that Sam's soul remains intact. But it does raise a sticky question."

Lizbeth stood up and walked towards the rest of them, rubbing the back of her neck anxiously. "What the hell yanked us out in the first place?" she murmured, looking between them. "I guess we're back to square one, because fuck knows all the signs point to something big, something bad, and something that I sure as hell have never heard of before." She looked around the room and her eyes fell on a mini-fridge. She immediately moved towards it and threw the door open, revealing an icy six-pack of beer. "Newcastle, nice," she muttered under her breath. She grabbed four bottles, tossing one to Bobby, Dean, and Sam, who was still eyeing her questioningly.

"Okay," Sam said, narrowing his eyes at her, "no offense or anything, but who the hell are you? And why are you here."

Lizbeth silently moved towards the dresser and maneuvered the cap of beer so it rested on the edge, slamming her hand down hard on the neck of the bottle so the cap popped off easily and fell to the floor. She took a long swig from the beer, enjoying the feeling of the cold and the bubbles sliding down her throat, and looked Sam up and down appraisingly.

"My name's Lizbeth Oswald," she said, extending a hand to him which he hesitantly took. "You can call me Beth. I'm member number two of the illustrious Club Dead."

Sam exhaled sharply and cocked his head to the side, letting go of her hand and taking a step back. "Club Dead?"

"Yeah," Lizbeth said, taking another long sip from the beer. "It's like Club Med, but I replaced the M with a—"

"No, I understand the pun," Sam interrupted, looking slightly flustered. "I mean, what do you mean you were dead?"

Lizbeth shrugged and collapsed on the couch next to Sam, propping her feet up on the coffee table in front of her. "I was dead, and then I was alive again. I can't tell you anything about the 'how' and 'why' of it all. All I can say is that whatever pulled me back into my own body has the same M.O. as whatever brought back your brother."

"Wait a second," Sam said, looking between everybody, "so why did you think I made a deal if she's back too? I don't even know her, why would I deal for her?"

Dean snorted loudly. "That's real nice, Sam."

"I—I didn't mean it like that!" he spluttered, looking at her with those wide, brown, puppy-dog eyes of his. "I just meant—"

"Dude, calm yourself," Lizbeth sighed, patting him on the shoulder. "There's a reason I didn't think this was a crossroads deal. There's no fucking way a crossroads demon has that kind of juice. It's not a prison break—you can't bust out with a spoon, a poster of Raquel Welch, and a healthy helping of moxie."

Dean let out another laugh and sat down in the chair opposite Sam, once again fixing his brother with a stare, albeit a less serious one. "So what were you doing around here if you weren't digging around my grave?" he asked, leaning back in the chair and raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Sam exhaled sharply and glanced fleetingly at Lizbeth, rolling the cold beer bottle between his hands nervously before continuing. "Well, as soon as I figured out I couldn't save you I—uh—I started hunting down Lillith, trying to get some payback."

Lizbeth, who had been about to swallow another mouthful of beer, suddenly lurched forwards letting out a spluttering cough in an inelegant spit-take. "Lillith?" she demanded, still coughing and trying to expel all beer from her lungs. "Lillith as in 'the first demon'-Lillith? You went after her alone—are you freaking suicidal?"

"You've met Lillith?" he asked, twisting around to face her.

Lizbeth let out a disbelieving laugh and shook her head. "Hell, no, I've never met Lillith" she muttered. "But I sure as hell have read enough about her to know that she is not to be fucked with. Going after Lillith with back-up, a couple of RPGs and maybe a tank would be inadvisable. Going after her alone?"

"Yeah," Bobby barked from his corner. "Who do you think you are, your old man?"

Sam's head dropped, and a shadow of guilt clouded his eyes. "Ah—yeah, I'm sorry Bobby I should have called—I was pretty messed up."

Lizbeth tuned his apology when she felt something digging into her back. She reached behind her and felt around between the couch cushions until her fingers closed around something satin-y. She arched her back and yanked her hand out from under her only to find that she was holding a lacy pink bra, covered in ridiculous ribbons. Rolling her eyes she tossed over to Dean who caught it and dangled in front of his brother, an unreasonably gleeful smirk forming on his face.

"Oh, yeah, Sammy," he said, letting it swing back and forth like he was attempting some sort of lewd hypnotism. "I feel your pain."

"Hey, what size is that?" Lizbeth said, grabbing at the bra and reading the label. "Nice one, Sammy," she grinned, punching him in the shoulder. "You bagged a C-cup."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and shook his head before opening them again. "Anyways," he drawled out, dismissing her child-like antics, "I was checking these demons out of Tennessee, and then out of nowhere they took a hard left and booked up here."

"When?" she and Dean asked simultaneously.

"Yesterday morning," he replied, looking between the two of them curiously. "I'm pretty sure some of them split off through."

"That's right when we busted out," Dean muttered, nodding at Lizbeth.

She rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, suddenly feeling very tired. "And you know what else," she muttered, throwing her head back and downing the contents of the bottle before slamming it down on the coffee table in front of her. "I'll bet you dollars to donuts that splinter group headed to Kansas. Am I right, or am I right?"

"Yeah," Sam said, looking at her curiously. "How did you know that?"

"Because that's where I popped up. A few dozen miles outside Topeka."

Well this just kept getting better and better. One thing was for sure, this had been a hell of day. Wake up in a coffin, almost die of dehydration, almost die from shards of glass being thrown at her from all directions, and now she was being stalked by demons. Fan-fucking-tastic. From the looks of things, she had been brought to be killed all over again. Whoever was pulling the strings really needed to make up their fucking minds, or soon enough she would be cutting those strings. She refused to be a puppet, and she was tired of having other forces make her dance.

"So do we think those demons showed up because of you two?" Bobby asked, scrunching up his face in thought.

Lizbeth ran her hands down her face in frustration. "Well, shit."

"Wait, why would they be here for you?" Sam asked, looking between her and Dean.

"Well I don't know," Dean snapped. "Some badass demon drags me out and now this? It's gotta be connected somehow."

"Yeah," Bobby whispered, suddenly getting a suspicious look about him. "How are ya feelin' anyway?"

So they had finally reached that portion of the speculation—the wondering if anything else had hitched a ride with them from the other side. Lizbeth ground her teeth together, picked up her empty bottle, and began peeling the label off in long strips like she always did when she got nervous. Dean, on the other hand, just shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side in consideration. "I'm feeling a bit hungry."

"No, I mean do you feel like yourself," Bobby elaborated, looking at him pointedly. "Anything strange or different?"

"Well I don't know about Dean," Lizbeth replied in a loud, sarcastic tone, "but I have the sudden and uncontrollable urge to eat human flesh." She let out a groan and rubbed at her forehead, feeling that headache starting up again. "Bobby, we've done all the tests. Hell, I've done them twice. I'm me. I look like me, I feel like me, and as far as I can tell I haven't weirded you out at all—at least not more than I usually do—did."

"Yeah, I'm on board with Red over there," Dean said gesturing in her direction. "How many times do I have to prove I'm me?"

"Yeah, well listen," Bobby growled back, his frustration mounting. "There's no demon that's gonna let you go out of the goodness of their hearts. They've got to have somethin' nasty planned."

"Okay, now hold on a second," Lizbeth said, holding up a hand for silence. "Why are we automatically assuming demon? I've read my dad's journal cover to cover, I've read damn near every book on demons that you have in that hole of a library, Bobby. I have never come across anything like this before. Maybe it's something different entirely. Maybe it's something new. Maybe the demons don't know what's going on either and they're trying to check out the new player in town. If we only look at the demonic aspect, jumping to conclusions, we might be completely missing out on out answer. I'm not saying this to make myself feel better about the situation—it might end up being something even worse. I'm just saying that we need to consider all options here."

"Look, she's right," Sam interjected finally. "We don't know what they're planning or even who 'they' is. We've got a pile of questions and no shovel."

"Okay, then," Lizbeth said with a definitive nod. "Let's go get a shovel."

"I know a psychic a few hours from here," Bobby said quietly. "Somethin' this big, maybe she's heard the other side talkin'."

"Hell yeah," Dean agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "It's worth a shot."

"Great, let's get out of here," she said, throwing herself to her feet and brushing off her pants. "I think that couch just gave me Chlamydia."

**Alright, there's another chapter! I feel I should tell you guys that I might not be updating this story on a regular schedule. I'm working on 3-4 different stories at any given time, and I write in whichever genre is 'working' for me at the moment, so posts might come kind of randomly.**

**Oh, the 'giant incestuous orgy of awkward and facepalming' is a reference to the Lizzie Bennet Diaries.**

**Please review! I'm not the type of author who holds chapters hostage to reviews, but that doesn't mean they don't make me happy!**


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